Thoughts of Dolomiti

As I prepare to leave on my next adventure, a canoe trip in northern Saskatchewan,  my mind drifts to Italy and the via Ferrata I experienced with my husband and friends; the inspiration for the following poem.

I spring from the blanket
eyes circle the forest
my mind reaches out to the horizon
where a distance strains
above tree tops
steel cables follow
a line
ready for the high course

Dolomiti tower before me
a north wind blows
in a rush
I drag bruised legs
over jagged dusty rocks
carabiner clicks
count the path upward

suddenly I see a raven
black wings glint as she soars
my bandana waves
I lunge to the left
in my mind
I am Icarus
on my way to the sun

The Bird by Patrick Lane

birdcage

The bird you captured is dead.
I told you it would die
but you would not learn
from my telling. You wanted
to cage a bird in your hands
and learn to fly.

Listen again.
You must not handle birds.
They cannot fly through your fingers.
You are not a nest
and a feather is
not made of blood and bone.

Only words
can fly for you like birds
on the wall of the sun.
A bird is a poem
that talks of the end of cages.

Birdsong

starling

(starling: internet photo)

Little songbird pretends to be a cat.
Shadow of an eagle looms overhead,
peacock plumage in the trash.

Caw of a crow,
magpie screech,
you search for your sound.
Whistle of a robin,
chatter of a chick-a-dee,
what will be your melody?

Wind gusts an arrow at your throat.
A bruised song unburdens.
A ripple courses through the leaves.
Spiders glint on diamond webs.

Love rings your little beak.

Fletched feathers of your arrow
shatter the fake cat.
Your chirp roars.